The Adventures of James Moriarty
by theinkwell33
Summary: Set in parallel with the events of Season 3, what James Moriarty has been up to. Part of being a dead man walking means a fresh start. What better way than for the consulting criminal to set up shop in America? Kidnapping four students for a Think Tank is only part of his plan-this is a job for SH. Please review-I'm always looking for ways to improve; this is my first FanFic.
1. Chapter 1

_9:00 PM Local Time_

_Eastern Europe_

Jim Moriarty looked at his opulent watch and yawned. The peaceful streaks of moonlight coming through the circular plane window made him too complacent for his liking. They had been hovering above the clouds in a small jet for some time, waiting for a report from the ground below. It was critical that he hear a report tonight.

The base he was thousands of feet above was the only one still standing in Europe that hadn't been mysteriously sabotaged, shut down, or, as was the most recent case, been the unfortunate victim of a pyrotechnic attack. Jim longed for the days when he used to make his multitudes of plots, and make his clients dance simply because he was bored.

He couldn't afford to lose anymore.

There had been some activity on the base earlier that night, beginning with a few small explosions and some unconscious guards. Eventually, one of his helicopters had been able to shine a spotlight on the fleeing target. A man had been sprinting away from the base and through the forest at top speed, but nothing would have saved him once the helicopter had found him.

Jim had leaped from his seat on the private jet when he heard the news, watching and waiting to hear if his hopes were well placed. His patience had seemed limitless an hour ago, but now it was starting to wear thin.

There was now a loud crackle on the radio device near the front, and Jim shot from his seat, smoothing his expensive navy blue suit and licking his lips.

"Sir," said a low voice, "he's escaped."

Too late, Jim realized the discreet punch he had thrown into the air. Clearly he had been expecting the best of news. He let his fist slam against the smooth cream wall.

"Did you at least find out if it was him? How did he escape? I thought we sent our two best."

There was silence on the other line.

"Tell me, or I'll make you into shoes when I get down there," he sighed for dramatic flair.

He wordlessly signaled the pilot to land back at the base.

After a moment, the man inhaled audibly. "We lost the prisoner _and_ our two best, sir. One of them left with the prisoner, but the other left early—had a bit of a domestic with his wife. I don't really know what about, but he said something about coffins. There was too much shouting when I got to his place. But the prisoner was still there when he left. And when we got there, he was gone."

"But did you find out whether or not it was him?" Jim's eyes were bright, like beads of oil under a lamp.

"We have some DNA we can test, but we can't confirm anything until we know if the DNA matches. The only thing left in his cell before we interrogated him was an apple, sir. Had some sort of carving in it. Looks like an IOU. Any idea what that means?"

This time it was Jim's turn to be silent.

"What did you say his name was again, sir? The man you're looking for?" the man on the other end persisted.

Jim clicked off the radio. He didn't have time to answer the questions anymore. He needed to plan, to lie low, and to get out of Europe completely, now that his suspicions were confirmed. He sat back down in his seat, reclining and fastening the safety belt.

While the plane began its slow descent, James Moriarty murmured distractedly to himself, and let the name fall on his lips like poisoned rain. He had gotten one more terrible miracle after all, and it was Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

_5:00 AM Local Time_

_England_

The last time James Moriarty had flown commercially, it had been a disaster. Squealing children, security lines, and no personal space. For an intellectual such as himself, he felt strongly that isolated travel was key to success. His brain needed quiet situations to function best. How else would he have come up with his brilliant ideas? If he could have, Jim would have scowled, but his disguise was too uncomfortable. He was wearing one of those plastic masks, the kind that one of his clients had suggested, and it changed his face completely. The downside, however, was that the mask didn't come with eyebrows.

At first, Jim considered not caring, and simply scaring everyone who saw him at the airport totally out of their wits. But attracting attention was unwise at the moment, so he found some false adhesive ones to match the wig he was wearing. Jim had never fancied himself a blond, but today, he had to admit it worked for him.

Walking through the airport was surreal. It was a buzzing cacophony of humanity, with over-stimulation in the form of conversation, cappuccinos, and the confluence of ordinary people. And Jim hated them for it. Hated their normalcy, if there was such a thing.

To keep a calm appearance, he soothed himself by thinking about the operations in America he was going to check on. He had been meaning to do it for a while, but with Sherlock surely hot on his trail, the last thing he wanted to do was stay in Europe. His main priority was to consult his contacts and begin his consulting criminal business again.

His plans for London would be carried out, but he didn't exactly like leaving his painstakingly woven operations in the hands of others. He liked keeping his hands clean, but he liked being the puppeteer more.

Checking in and going through security went off without a hitch, and by the time he sat down at the gate, he consulted his boarding pass. Seat 21 B. At first he read it as 221 B, and then blinked rapidly, realizing the mistake. Sherlock was following him in the worst way possible: in his own mind.

He took a deep breath, felt the odd desire to laugh, and then took out his laptop. He had lots of work to do before landing in America, beginning with securing a job.

The initial emails he received from his contacts seemed tentative, but he had finally obtained a position at a small college in California. He was to be called a Professor. Professor Jim Moriarty. The corners of his lips pulled into a taut smile beneath the mask, and he gained some satisfaction as the small boy and his mother sitting across from him at the gate gave him a wary look.

He scanned the names of the people he would need to pull off his plan. Beverly, Mark, Kendra, Hubble…what kind of name was Hubble? He rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, they would have to do. He only hoped their talents would be as helpful as he had been promised. Dr. Stevenson was not a liar, after all. He was too afraid Jim would make him into shoes.

When it was time to board, Jim felt dread as heavy as lead on his shoulders. Hours upon hours in a tin tube with these people was a terror he would have to face. But it was the first of many. As the plane taxied, the first baby started screaming. He shuddered. It was going to be a long flight.

_Several Agonizing Hours Later_

_California_

Jim made his way through the medicinal white hallways until coming across his hotel room. He was immensely relieved to be on the ground again, after the terrible travel horrors had subsided. He was alone again at last. He took off the mask, and stretched his face back to its more comfortable form. Yawning like a lion, he made himself comfortable in his room.

Sitting down at the small wooden desk inside the hotel, he noticed a thick, cream colored envelope propped conspicuously against the brushed iron lamp. He examined it for poisons and explosives, as was his custom, but found nothing he deemed dangerous. He assumed it was a welcome note from the hotel. He opened it slowly, and a small lace edge notecard slid out. On it was the following:

_JM-_

_Don't think you're safe here. I know where you are, and I always will. If you come anywhere near Sherlock, you will have me as a force to reckon with. Be good in California. I'm watching._

There was a small illustration at the bottom, and looking closer, Jim noticed it was a closed umbrella. He turned the card over and found two photos taped to the back; they were surveillance images of him climbing into a taxi from the San Diego Airport. They couldn't have been taken more than half an hour ago. Mycroft certainly had gone the extra mile.

Of course, Jim had been expecting Mycroft to be sensitive to his movements. But Jim had no intention of "being good." It wasn't in his job description.


	3. Chapter 3: The First Domino Falls

**_A quick author's note: I figured I should mention I do not by any means own Sherlock or its characters._**

_8:20 am_

_California_

It had been three weeks since Jim's arrival at the university but it felt like a thousand. He scorned himself for actually looking forward to the job. It turned out that he hated students just about as much as he loathed Sherlock Holmes. And yet, he would have preferred to have been back on the rooftop of St. Bart's if it had meant an escape from the maddening populace of adolescents.

It was on this particular Tuesday, however, that Jim had decided it was finally time to begin. He was tipping the first domino in a long chain of events. He picked up his smooth black mobile phone at his college office, and dialed a long distance number. There was a click on the other end, and he knew that someone was listening.

"Press forward, Charles. It's already September and I don't want to have to nag you. It has to be done in November, and I want him to burn. Find a man for the detonation too." His melancholy voice was quiet and smooth. He stared at the wall in front of him, upon which hung several falsified plaques, honorary degrees, and even a particularly entertaining image of him meeting the US President. His props team had had a good laugh with that one. Jim scowled, but the response on the phone brought him back to reality.

"Yes, sir," said a lightly accented male voice, and there was a click as the line went dead. Satisfied, Jim made the next call. His Think Tank would be called to order by tonight, according to his points of contact. The armored plane had been arranged, and the targets had been identified.

At 8:37 am, Jim gave the order, and that day, four lives were changed forever.

_5:14 pm_

_Nebraska_

Bee didn't realize she was being kidnapped until she was already in the car. It was one of those stunning and dizzying moments of time where she wasn't quite sure whether what was happening was real or a figment of her active imagination. There was no one there, and then in an explosion of action, there were thick hands around her waist, lots of black, and the slamming of a car door. There was more black color inside the van, and while she couldn't see her captors, they could see her just fine, her pale skin reflecting against the faint light streaming from the windshield, though the rest of the windows were blacked out.

Bee didn't have time to say a single word, to shout, or even to put up her arms in defense. The abduction was like a lightning strike, powerful, immediate, and irreversible. There was an uncomfortable sensation against her lips as a gag was placed in her mouth as she opened it to scream, and when the person standing behind her tied the cloth in a knot, some of her long, frizzy hair got snagged in the knot too. She could feel the person behind her breathing in swift, low intakes, gruff and low. A man, she thought. Squinting and waiting for her eyes to adjust, she realized someone was still holding her hands behind her back and she was sitting on the floor with her feet out in front of her. She attempted to kick out, but her legs were caught under a seat and only moved slightly against the metal bottom. She wriggled around, trying to get her legs free, but she suddenly felt a tiny, piercing pain just above her collarbone, and the inky blackness stole over her muscles and her consciousness.

_6:40 pm_

_Florida_

Hubble Gordon was as tall and bright as a lighthouse on a moonless summer night. Amiable and extroverted, he found a thriving social life for himself in college very, very fast. That is, he did, until he switched his major to history. His college was famous for the most rigorous history program in the nation, and rightfully so. When Hubble wasn't wearing running around in shin-guards, he was wearing his black rimmed glasses with his eyes stampeding over pages in the library. The workload was so spectacular it was a shock that Hubble was ever seen anywhere other than between bookshelves or goalposts. In fact, the night Hubble was taken, he was in the exact place no one ever expected him to be; on a date.

Hubble was waiting in the warm spring air outside the restaurant, staring out into the distance at the coming clouds. It was sunset, and the blue sky was beginning to change into amazing combinations of purple and amber through veils of rain. He kept checking his watch, until his date was fifteen minutes late and he was getting cold. Hubble was about to move inside when something in his peripheral vision moved. Turning to face whatever it was, his face connected solidly with something very hard. His last thought was a register of sincere pain, and then he crumpled to the ground.

_Time Unknown_

_Location Unknown_

When Hubble awoke, he was lying face up on a bed, and his face felt like one gigantic bruise. The room had no windows, but light from a bulb hanging from the ceiling gave the room a sparse white gleam. There were two people lying next to him, and Hubble was the only one awake. The girl beside him had frizzy brown hair in wild ringlets, and she was wearing jeans and a flowing pink top. To her right was another girl, with a pale face and dark, choppy, short hair. She had numerous piercings on her ears and her nose, and her nails were painted black. She looked angry, even in sleep. As Hubble attempted to get out of bed, he was startled by a slamming noise outside the room. Someone was coming.

Lying and barely closing his eyes, Hubble pretended to be asleep. The door to his left opened, and another bed was rolled into the room. There was a thin, scrawny boy on it, with a long gash across his cheek that was bleeding copiously. The two people wheeling the bed inside dabbed at it gently, and then left in a hurry. They were both men dressed in white scrubs, with manicured hands and neatly trimmed hairlines. Hubble knew he had fooled them when the door closed behind him. Observing all he could without lifting his head conspicuously off the pillow, he examined the newcomer. He looked young, maybe nineteen, and he was wearing a navy NASA shirt and jeans with a slight tear on one knee. The shirt was covered in blood, most likely his own, judging by the gash across his cheek. Hubble was starting to feel the panic bubbling into his veins. Wanting any explanation possible, he realized with frustration that getting any answers would mean confrontation with his kidnappers, or with the mysterious people sharing the room with him.

Hubble debated whether to wake up the others for several minutes. He felt like a child again, after waking from a nightmare and wondering whether or not to wake up his parents to help lull him back to slumber. On the one hand, if he woke all the others up, it was promising that someone would have an explanation as to what had happened. However, on the other hand, Hubble was fairly certain the room was being watched. If they began to talk to each other, someone would inevitably come to separate them again. But then why put us together in the first place? The thought echoed in his mind for a while.

Before he could even decide whether or not to sit up in bed, the men in the white scrubs were back in the room. A rough hand shook Hubble's shoulder and he tensed automatically, feigning being awoken from a fitful sleep.

"Get up." A calm voice said from above him. Hubble blinked rapidly, and realized the others were being awoken as well. The girl with the piercings sprang out of bed at once, catching a man in white by surprise. He reacted by grabbing her wrists, and pulled them behind her back until she stopped fighting, though her bellicose expression remained.

The boy with the NASA shirt was sitting up slowly, his face scrunched up in pain. To Hubble's right, the frizzy haired girl had both hands on her head, and seemed to be crying.

"The Professor wants to see you. Please line up in a single file line and follow me."

There was complete silence as they did as they were told. NASA boy touched his face and grimaced, and the girl with the piercings was at the back of the line, still restrained by the other man in scrubs.

They left the room through a circular door with silver handles and into a white, windowless hallway with a black stone floor. Hubble's feet slapped loudly against the floor, and he felt oddly nervous about making noise while everyone else seemed to be trying to be as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. They walked on for several minutes, and the floor seemed to slope up slightly. Finally, the man leading them stopped in front of another circular white door, this time with gold knobs. The man knocked once, and there was an indecipherable shout from inside. Exchanging a nervous look with the other man, the leader opened the door and led them inside.


	4. Chapter 4-Meet the Professor

Bee's first impression of the room was an overwhelming urge to straighten up the place. It was clearly supposed to be a conference room of some sort, but the chairs were all mismatched, and jackets, glasses of water, and papers were strewn about haphazardly. The paintings on the walls were crooked, and the clock on the wall was upside down. Then, she realized that everything in the room was either black or white or gray. There was very little color besides the students' clothes, and the very red lips of the man standing at the head of the table.

He was well dressed, and rather good looking. He seemed young, maybe in his thirties. His fingers were placed on the table like bird cages, and the right hand was covered with a chalky white dust. The man smiled, and one side of his face lifted slightly higher than the other; even his smile was off balance. Then, Bee saw what scared her the most by far. This man's eyes. They were opaque obsidian; black, cold, and jaggedly sharp. They were unforgiving, dead, and angry eyes, with an ominous twinkle that gave Bee the impression he was the kind of man to find the macabre amusing rather than horrifying. His eyes surveyed the people before them, lingering on their scared faces. When they reached Bee's, she thought her heart might burst in terror. She was not the only one to experience this. The boy next to her with the gash on his face was breathing quickly and he was very pale.

"Well," the Professor said in a soft, high, accented voice. He smiled even larger now, and his teeth gleamed like wet pearls. "Well. This must be the group."

There was no answer. Bee's hands turned as cold as ice cubes. A chill ran up her spine as he surveyed them again.

"You must be wondering what you are doing here, yes?" he took his hands off the table. There was no answer. Before Bee could blink, there was a loud slamming noise as the Professor's flat hand smacked the table. "YES?" he shouted, and the group nodded quickly. As quickly as the rage had come, it was gone without a trace from the Professor's voice when he spoke in a relaxed drawl.

"Good. Well. I suppose you all will do just fine."

"How do you mean, sir?" said a clear voice to Bee's left. Hubble had spoken, and then swallowed as if trying to make the words slide back down his throat when the Professor's eyes went to him.

"It's Hubble, isn't it? I was right about you; you're comfortable addressing authority. But you're just as afraid as the rest of them, aren't you?" The Professor was close to whispering now. Hubble held his head high, but did not answer. His hands were shaking subtly.

The Professor, looking bored, addressed the group again. "You are the smartest students in the country, hand-picked after years of careful genetic research. Beverly knows what I'm talking about, don't you?"

Bee flinched, and felt the others stare.

The Professor grinned and continued. "Your brain patterns have been matched to see who you will work best with. I have summoned you all because you have a very important job to do." He raised his chalky hand to his lips, drumming them against his red mouth. "You are going to be my Think Tank. This job supersedes your education, your families, your friends, and your life outside this place. You won't see anyone but me, my staff, and your group until you're done. Understood?" He licked one of his fingers. Bee shivered inwardly, imagining the chalk dust in her own mouth, fine and gritty.

"What are we thinking up?" Hubble was the only one brave enough to voice the question aloud.

"How to avert a terrorist attack on a city." The Professor licked another finger.

"Which city?"

"Does it matter if the terrorists destroy it?"

There was a silence. Hubble changed the subject, trying to keep control of the conversation. "How do we know you won't just use our ideas to plan the terrorist attack and cause it rather than stop it?"

"You don't," the Professor said nonchalantly, and licked a third finder. The other two were glistening grotesquely.

"Then why should we do anything you ask of us?"

"Because if you don't, I will kill you. This is extremely secret, and I can't just let you go." He laughed bizarrely, as if this was incredibly funny to him.

There was another thick silence full of unspoken dread and fear.

"You're crazy." The girl with the choppy black hair and piercings had spoken at last. A silver necklace with the letter "K" gleamed at her pale throat.

The Professor chuckled. "What was your first clue, Ms. Noir?" He licked another finger and smiled. Kendra looked disgusted.

"What's your name, since you clearly know ours?" Hubble interceded.

The Professor smiled crookedly again, his eyes straying around the room of disordered objects. "I believe we live in a world full of organized chaos; a fractal image of the globe. That's what I like most; the chaos, because deep down it means something. There's always a pattern."

"You didn't answer my question." Hubble sounded irritated now.

The man licked his pinky finger, and then buttoned up his suit coat, smoothing the lapels. "Perhaps you've heard of me before. My death last year really made some waves after I got in a nasty spot in England. It's a shame I had to come back to life. Being dead is wonderful. And, my epitaph was to _die_ for. So clever. Now I have to create a new one."

He strode to the circular doors, and put his saliva-encrusted hand on the gold doorknob. "My name," he said quietly while gesturing for the scrub men to escort the students out, "…is one of many aliases. But if I had to pick one…" He inhaled and closed his eyes as if smelling a wonderful perfume. Bee squeezed her hands until her nails dug into her icy palms. After some consideration, the Professor spoke quietly, "My name is James Moriarty."


	5. Chapter 5-Knowledge is Key

**Author's Note: I do not by any means own Sherlock or its characters. Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave reviews.**

As they were thrust from the room by the men in scrubs, Kendra was fighting their burly arms in hopes of a desperate escape. The silver chain bracelet around her wrist dug into her skin like teeth, but she didn't care. She didn't want to be here.

She had recognized Moriarty the moment they had been brought to him. She knew his crimes, knew the grim story of Richard Brooke, and his appalling death at the St. Bart's showdown. She joined the Empty Hearse Club as soon as she had heard it was being started, and had convinced her roommate to join too. Her cousin Harry in England kept her in the loop, but there wasn't much she could have done to resurrect Sherlock Holmes from her home in San Diego. And never, in a million years, would she have imagined that Moriarty had survived. The Empty Hearse had been filled by a murderer that ate chalk off his fingers. This was a terrifying thought.

As the doors began to swing shut, he could hear Moriarty cackling. "Good," he cheered, "we have a fighter." And then the doors cut off his laughter, but Kendra could still feel it reverberating in every nerve.

They were brought back to a new room, another conference room, and all the furniture was gone. There was a sickly pale brown carpeted floor, four walls, and no windows. There were no windows anywhere Kendra had seen. Where were they?

The girl called Bee was a sniveling mess of tangled frizzy hair and tear tracks on her freckled face, and Hubble (what kind of parents name their child Hubble?) towered over her with what he must have thought was a comforting expression. The other boy with the NASA shirt wore thick black rimmed glasses and stared at the floor as if it were a fascinating specimen of fiber.

Kendra examined her own outfit. It was an ensemble of leggings, a black skirt, and a black shirt with three red blood droplets on the left shoulder. She had torn the other sleeve off while resisting her kidnappers. She had just walked past a dimly lit bench near Balboa Park around 7 at night when there was suddenly a blindfold around her eyes, and the sound of squealing tires drowned out her feeble cry of alarm before someone shoved a bandanna down her throat. There had been a skirmish as she lashed out at her captors as they tried to load her into the vehicle. She had actually kicked one of them somewhere fleshy with her heavy black boot, and he let out a pitiful grunt of pain and dug his nails into her calf. She looked down. There were bruises on that exact spot. There had been a new pain at the base of her neck once they had hauled her into the car, and they injected her with something that felt like an icy poison, and she had awoken in the infirmary only minutes before.

There were a lot of things she wanted to ask, but asking them now wouldn't have helped. No one else knew the answers. Sherlock Holmes could solve this case, she thought, but he's still dead. Not much help there.

Hubble was the first to speak. "Hi, I'm Hubble. I'm a college student in Florida. I'm a freshman." He looked at the other boy with glasses, as if expecting him to follow suit and introduce himself. The other boy just stared, his eyebrows raised skeptically.

"I'm just trying to diffuse the tension. We must all be connected somehow or we wouldn't be here. We need to work together and figure out why we're here, where we are, and how we can stop being wherever this is." He pointed to the ground to make his point.

"What are we going to do? Run away? I don't fancy getting injected with whatever that was ever again," Kendra replied snidely. Hubble prompted her again, and she sighed loudly. "I'm Kendra, and I go to school in California. I'm a sophomore."

"Kendra, I'm just trying to reason this through," Hubble began, but was interrupted.

"I'm Beverly, but I prefer Bee. I'm from Nebraska. I'm a freshman too." Her eyes glanced up at Hubble.

Kendra looked at Bee in amazement. Her voice was perfectly steady, despite the tears on her face. Bee wiped them off with a flick of her hands.

"You don't sound upset." Hubble said blankly. "I thought you were crying."

"I can cry on cue." She shrugged casually. "I know exactly why I'm here, and I want them to think I'm weak."

"Why _are_ we here? What did the Professor mean when he said you knew?" NASA boy had spoken at last, and his voice was rich and quiet.

Hubble looked at him sharply, and the boy yielded with an eye roll. "Fine. Hi everybody, I'm Mark from Colorado. I'm a sophomore." Hubble appeared satisfied, and looked back at Bee.

"It's a long story, and you're not going to like it, so you should probably sit down." She sighed, and slid to the ground with her back up against the wall by the door. The others followed suit.

Kendra spent the next few minutes looking around the room for a way out as Bee began to speak, but nothing came to mind. The men had locked the thick white door behind them, but she hoped Bee could shed some light on the situation with her story. Sometimes knowledge of a situation unlocks more doors than keys do.

She felt it was something Sherlock Holmes would have said, had he known about their predicament.


	6. Chapter 6-Family Matters

**Author's Note: I'm experimenting with different perspectives. Let me know if there's one you like best. **

**A****s usual, I do not by any means own Sherlock or its characters. Thanks for reading!**

_11:15 am_

_London_

"It's not in London, and it's not my problem right now," Sherlock Holmes scowled from his repose on the couch at 221B Baker Street. He needed a smoke. Someone was enjoying a cigarette outside the sandwich shop downstairs, and the faint smell drifted through the window, tempting him with its cancerous tendrils.

John was still angry about the dinner fiasco, and hadn't been around to thwart him from acquiring a secret stash of cigarettes. Sadly, Sherlock hadn't had time to replenish his stores yet. He'd only just moved back in. Now all he had was Mycroft. And Mrs. Hudson had taken his skull again.

Mycroft contemplated his brother with an amused expression. "Living without John in your life has made you selfish."

"Will caring save them?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes in response.

"There's not much I can do right now, Mycroft. I can't leave in the middle of a case. Especially this case. You know that." Sherlock fumbled for the nicotine patches stashed under the couch cushions, thinking of the extensive maps and plans pinned to the wall haphazardly. He had needed to avoid the bullet holes. Perhaps shooting the wall hadn't been his best idea. He grinned.

"I know. But if you solved the boomerang case via video chat, I could only hope you would at least be able to figure out _something_ useful."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He wasn't a total idiot. Even comparatively speaking. Mycroft had some dim moments too.

"Four kidnappings, four states, within four hours of each other. Four red apples left at their last known location. They're obviously connected, but I can't do anything while I'm here." He finally found a patch, and smoothed it onto his arm.

"Sherlock, you and I both know there's more to it than that. I know what you did at the base. Your little joke."

Sherlock wasn't surprised. "If you had been on St. Bart's rooftop with me, you wouldn't have thought he'd actually kill himself either. He's not dead, and you know it."

"Certainly." Mycroft picked up four files marked CIA: CONFIDENTIAL from the coffee table. "But you shouldn't have been so careless. He knows you're alive too, and knows you're busy. He's trying to play another game to distract you."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He rose from the couch, and turned his back to Mycroft, facing his web of information on the terrorism case. Mycroft shrugged, but remained silent at Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea. There was a strained silence as Mycroft hid the files from sight and tried—Sherlock would have said failed—to look comfortable. When Mrs. Hudson had finally left, Mycroft sighed.

"How about a game of Operation, Sherlock?"

_11:00 pm_

_14,000 feet over Portland, Oregon_

"We have everything we need, I assure you," Charles said, his light accent floating through the speakerphone. Jim Moriarty was standing in his chaotic room, smiling through his red rimmed eyes.

"What about John Watson?" he asked. "Is he still giving Sherlock the cold shoulder?"

"I believe so. The only person seen entering the flat today was Mycroft, sir."

"Has Mycroft lost any weight?" Jim smirked and smoothed his tie.

Charles chuckled. "No."

"Charles, I don't want you to kill John Watson. Understand? Just melt that cold shoulder of his."

"Why not?"

"Because John is like family to Sherlock. They are blood brothers. And that is a tremendous weapon. That will be your payment."

"I don't understand, sir."

"Of course not." Jim ran his hand through his styled hair. "Family matters to Sherlock Holmes, even if you can't see it. And I want you to use it against him, any way you think best. That will be the best way to burn them."

"I see," Charles said slowly. Jim could practically hear the man grinning through the phone. He pictured that skeletal face smiling, and felt the corners of his own lips turning up too.


	7. Chapter 7-DNA Means Do Not Ask

**Author's Note: I do not by any means own Sherlock or its characters. **

**This is where the plot gets twisty—enjoy!**

_Principian College, Nebraska_

_2 Hours before Bee's abduction_

Bee stood in the doorway, watching Dr. Stevenson contemplate her with a guarded expression.

"I said, why is there a photograph of me in your university office?" she repeated, holding his gaze.

"That, Beverly, is a question you may not want the answer to." Dr. Stevenson was staring at his shoes now. They were sensible brown tie-up shoes, with scuff marks on the toes from when he dragged his feet when he walked. He was wearing black socks that hugged his calves tightly.

"I don't care. My parents are dead. I have spent the past six years in boarding school, wondering what happened to them. And you have a picture of me that was taken six years ago, when they were still alive. I want some answers."

Dr. Stevenson rose quietly from his black leather desk chair, walked to the door, and motioned her in with a weathered hand that did not match his youthful appearance. He closed the door tightly behind her, and Bee felt sweat flare on the small of her back when, to her surprise, he locked it.

"You must understand, Beverly, that what I am about to tell you can be shared with no one. Is that clear?" he sat down again, crossing one leg over the other and winding it around, like a viper tethering itself to a high perch on a branch.

Bee nodded, her heart thundering against her ribs. She was in full realization of every moment and detail, perched on the precipice of hearing her destiny.

Dr. Stevenson looked uncomfortable, and smiled wryly with apologetic eyes as he began his tale.

"Your parents were colleagues of mine. You were my client, in the simplest of terms. You, and three other children with parents who worked in this building. It began as a simple idea, but only a few were brave enough to take it beyond theory.

"We began meeting late, after the labs were closed for the night, to experiment. It took several months before we got the equations to work, but eventually we were ready to test. The results worked wonderfully in mice, and in other animals we tested. The next step, for them, was to test it on people.

"I refused to take part in the testing. Testing genetic experiments on humans was, to me, unthinkable, illegal, and extremely dangerous. But your parents, and the other three couples, did it anyway. On their own children, so as not to raise suspicion by asking strangers to volunteer. You were barely old enough to talk.

"That is how you came to be my client. You, and the three other children, were watched very closely by me after the procedure. I monitored your health, your mental capacity, and your reactions to the injections the four of you received. Your parents sent me that picture just before they left this office. They moved away with you, and I never saw them again. I never knew what happened to them, or to you. I figured I would never see you again either, until today."

_But you kept my picture_, she thought, but didn't say it out loud_. _

There was a breathless silence, and Bee felt as though all the air had been taken out of the room. She sat there, in an oppressive vacuum, trying to understand.

"You mean to say that my parents tested genetic drugs on me?" The sentence felt alien and terrible in her mouth. Dr. Stevenson nodded, looking ashamed.

"They altered your genetic makeup somehow. Since I wasn't present for the testing, I don't know what they did, exactly. I wish I'd stopped them, now, but back then it was all so convoluted."

"That shouldn't have mattered. You should have-"

"—Stopped them, I know." Dr. Stevenson looked impatient. "I did try, but it was too late. And, you're not dead, are you? What harm could have possibly come to you? It was years ago, and it may not have changed you at all. It might not have worked."

"But you don't know that." Bee flapped her hands wildly. "You don't know anything about what they did. They could have made me a monster. They might have."

"It was a small dose. Just enough to make you special," he said gently, trying to calm her down.

"Nothing is special about me."

But Bee wasn't sure. Everything she had thought was normal in her life was now being called into question. Was she really smart, or was she engineered that way? Was she made a good athlete by DNA manipulation, or had she naturally become one? Had her likes, dislikes, allergies, or favorite things been influenced by a new and unknown genetic alteration? What was truly her, and what was a chemical result of her parents' frankly abysmal decisions?

Dr. Stevenson didn't look convinced, but didn't say anything more than: "I _am_ sorry, Bee. For everything."

"That's not good enough," she said, and she rose from her chair, her wild hair flying. She unlocked the door, and thrust it open without another word. She ran out of the room and down the hall, as Dr. Stevenson put his head in his hands.

_The Conference Room_

_Unknown Time_

"That was only a few hours ago. And now, here we are. _Four_ of us," Bee concluded. "That can't be coincidence. The question, now, is what will we _do_?"

The fear in her heart was choking her. As the others sat dumbfounded against the white wall, the intercom on the ceiling noiselessly switched off, and the fifth person who had been listening in at last left their company. They were going to be quiet for a long while, and the fifth person was too busy at the moment to listen to their shell-shocked silence.

_Principian College, Nebraska_

_Moments after Bee departed_

He sat there with his head in his hands, only for a moment, before his phone rang.

"Dr. Stevenson speaking," he said quietly.

There was a cold soft voice on the other end of the line.

"I understand, sir. When do you want it done?"

The voice told him, and he nodded to himself.

"Where are you taking them?" His eyebrows jumped upward at the response.

"I'll make sure she's alone," he sighed, and hung up the phone. He then left a voicemail for Bee, who was likely walking back to her dorm room. When she heard the message, Bee would return, he knew she would. And he would be ready to intercept her when she walked back, alone. As two burly men in black entered his office upon his command, he pulled out the drawer of his desk, where a vial of clear liquid and a syringe lazily rolled forward, along with the keys to a black van.


	8. Chapter 8-Remember, Remember

_Location Unknown_

_November, Probably Late Morning_

Mark sat in is isolation quarters, staring at an exploded view of a design he never would have dared build if the Professor hadn't ordered him to. Following his kidnapping and the first time he learned about the genetic experiments he had been part of, the Professor had immediately separated Mark and the others into secret individual rooms, given them a vague impression of what month it was, and assigned them duties. Mark learned quickly that his phone had been disabled, and there was no internet access of any kind wherever they were. The Professor and his cronies had certainly done a wonderful job making sure the four of them had no contact with the outside world, or even with each other. Some Think Tank this was.

But the walls could not hide everything. Mark had become increasingly observant of the strange rumblings that shook his quarters like minor earthquakes very late at night, and he remained convinced that all the furniture in his room had been nailed down for a reason. There were times when he felt slightly ill, as if he had fallen from a great height very quickly, not unlike the feeling of descent on a turbulent airplane.

If he could have shared his thoughts with the other three captives, he would have. But they were never given the chance to discuss the news Bee had brought with her that first night, or anything that followed. That being said, Mark had had plenty of time to assess the situation on his own, though he was still coming to terms with the fact that he was genetically altered. What was he supposed to do with information like that?

The scratch on his cheek from his scuffle with his abductors had nearly healed now, leaving just a small scab near his cheekbone, but it left a white scar behind. He touched it absently now, remembering the events of his last day of normalcy.

He had just finished his first exam, and was the last one to leave. It had been so dark outside that the mountains were no longer visible. He hated evening exams, because by the time he was finished it was too late to do anything but walk home alone and sleep, but sleep was the last thing he wanted to do. He had too much adrenaline.

He had begun walking back on the sidewalk that had been stained a dark orange from the lamp lights above. His mind had been preoccupied with the exam questions he had worried about, and his mind was too full of angle calculations and free body diagrams to realize that there was a person with a hooded sweatshirt approaching him until they were a mere foot away from each other. The hood had been pulled up, so Mark couldn't see his or her face. Mark had seen a knife emerge from the sweatshirt pocket, and he'd had no time to react before the silver sliver swirled upward and poised in front of him at chest level. "Give me your wallet, quick." The voice, as he remembered it, had been gruff but not deep, and the person had been relatively small in stature. With fingers trembling, Mark had pulled out his wallet and pressed it into the mugger's gloved palm.

Just when he had thought the situation couldn't get any worse, a car had approached from behind and three men in ski masks had stepped out. The mugger had tensed, and before Mark could shake free his paralysis, people were grabbing his arms and waist, and suddenly he was being dragged into the car. There'd been a flash of silver in the night air, and the knife the mugger had thrown had scraped his cheek as it flew past him. The person holding his arms behind his back had wailed as the knife caught him on the shoulder. He'd heard it clatter to the ground, along with faint padded footsteps as the mugger took off running down the street. That was the last thing he remembered before his cheek had begun to sting and bleed, and something pierced the skin on the back of his neck.

Mark still thought it was strange. He kept replaying that sequence of events again and again against the back of his eyes, trying to figure out why on earth the person who robbed him would throw the knife. It was obviously not aimed directly at him—it was meant for his kidnappers. But why would he throw it at all, especially after just stealing Mark's wallet?

For the first few days after his arrival here, he thought perhaps having a witness to his kidnapping would help people find them and free them. But now Mark was not expectant of any such miracle. He was beginning to get used to this new, isolated, sparse life, and it scared him to think that it was his new normal. He missed his family and his friends, but now they were trapped in the amber of his brain, just warm memories from a happier time.

He adjusted his glasses and turned his attention back to the part he was examining on his computer. It was an exploded view, with each part eerily hovering in space, eventually to be connected to everything else. And Mark knew exactly what it was for. It was a bomb. A bomb the size of a king size bed, that could sink an entire city into the ground.

The Professor had assured Mark that these were simple prototypes just to lay the groundwork for prevention methods. But Mark knew better than to believe a man who ate chalk. He knew this bomb was going to be used, and that it would be his fault. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Unless—he gasped.

Seized with an idea, Mark closed his eyes and tried to picture what he had read in his mechanics textbook only days before his abduction. Remember. Remember.

Mark had a photographic memory, and his mind flipped rapidly to the page he was thinking of. It was the one with the Vitruvian Man in the bottom left corner. He had read somewhere on that page that Leonardo da Vinci had designed war machines, but put deliberate errors in his designs to ensure they wouldn't be built easily, especially in case they fell into the wrong—in Mark's case, chalk covered—hands. Mark wondered if the solution could actually be that simple. He opened his eyes, scanning the part again, and moving the cursor to a part that was critical to the eventual combustion. He made the connection piece just barely too large, so the machine would potentially fail. The Professor most likely wouldn't notice, because if he were smart enough to build a machine like this, he wouldn't have needed Mark in the first place. Mark knew it would work, as long as he didn't get caught, and he was willing to risk it. He just wished he could find a way to tell the others to do the same with whatever they were working on.

He was still musing on this when there was a distant shout. His quarters were close to wherever the Professor conducted most of his business, and the air vent between their rooms was connected. Mark sometimes could hear him talking to guards or on a phone. Mark listened intently now as the Professor muttered something angrily, and then heard him yell "No! That can't be right!"

He had heard the Professor become angry many times, but never this angry. Pounding noises echoed through the air vent, and he pictured the man slamming his fist against the wall. "You told me it would go off fine. That was your word. _Fine_. I don't call Moran's imprisonment and your failure to do your job _fine_. What _happened_?"

There was a moment when Mark thought the Professor had left the room and could not be heard anymore. Then, he heard the Professor say in a restrained voice, "I see. Charles, you are very lucky I'm not in England right now. It seems like history repeats itself after all. But if _I_ were there, you'd be in Guy Fawkes' place right now. Burning. Please tell me that you at least retrieved the information I asked you for." There was a beat of silence, and then, "Good. File it," he purred. "At least something can be salvaged. Sherlock Holmes can't prevent everything."

Mark was hardly breathing now, and he cupped his ears.

"Married?" There was a low chuckle. "I don't know what she sees in him. Keep me posted, and please don't fail this time."

Footsteps began and softly trailed away, and Mark finally relaxed. He turned quietly back to his desk, and resumed his work, storing what he had heard in his memory.


	9. Chapter 9-Could Be Dangerous

**Author's Note: A quick apology for no post yesterday. Hope you like this one, though! Thanks for reading.**

**As always, I do not by any means own Sherlock or its characters.**

_February_

_Location Unknown_

After nearly four months in captivity, Bee decided it was time to redecorate her room. She was no longer content in the tiny room as it was. She needed a change. Her room was simply that: a room. It held no more than a bed, a desk with a computer and a lamp, and a miniscule private bathroom. But, in this new terrible life she led, she figured she could find some scrap of happiness in some rearranged furniture.

She tried to lift the lamp from the desk, but it was nailed down. The desk was also attached to the floor. Straining her taut muscles, she tried shifting the bed. Still nothing. She couldn't believe it. Everything was nailed to the floor, as if someone had foreseen her desire and sought to prevent it from coming to fruition.

She stood at the center of her quarters in silent contemplation when she felt another earthquake. She felt slightly dizzy as the rumbling shook her room again, and she wondered for the millionth time what could possibly be causing these disturbances. At first, she thought it could be from a boat, but she felt no rhythmic pattern to the earthquakes, so she ruled out any transportation by waves. She skirted away from an airplane hypothesis, simply because the idea that she had been living up in the air for four months was terrifying, and she had locked away her fear long ago. She didn't want to let it out again.

Bee nevertheless felt extremely angry. She had been separated from the only three people that may have had any ideas on how to get out of this place, she missed her life in Nebraska, and she was suffering severe moral conflict. She was being made to do things she had no business ever needing to know how to do. She was being trained to be a villain, and she hated it.

Her assignment had been mainly based on athletics, focusing on martial arts and hand-to-hand combat. The Professor wanted to know the easiest way to efficiently and quickly take out squadrons of guards or enemies in the event of a terror attack. Of course, Bee translated this in her head to mean "We want you to learn how to be the muscle of this operation." Her assignment was no accident. She had been doing martial arts since she was small.

She had been provided with a barebones workout facility adjacent to her very small room, and she was supervised by a guard each time she needed to access it. She had read manuals of the weakest points in the human body, and studied vulnerable places to target in an attack. She learned how to break bones, cause pain, and how to kill without weapons. And she knew she was going to use it regardless of whether she wanted to or not. Because if she didn't, someone else knew exactly how to kill her.

After the quaking of her room had subsided, she gripped her desk, trying one last time to free it from its confinement. The result was disappointing.

And in that moment, Bee finally had had enough. Of everything.

She made up her mind, and pressed the button to call the supervising guard so she could be led to the workout room. When the guard reached her door, he unlocked it and she stepped through the rounded door frame that paralleled the bubble shaped ceiling. The narrow hallway had two closed doors on the opposite side, and on the same side of her room there was a door to the right and to the left. She didn't know what was in the door to the right, but the door to the left held her exercise equipment. She counted the steps as she walked beside the guard, and on the eighth step, she did something very brave, very stupid, and very desperate.

Within three seconds, the guard had sustained a bloody nose, intense pain to the left kneecap, and perhaps a broken toe, although Bee couldn't be sure. She hated herself for causing him pain, but couldn't help feel a deep, bitter, almost boiling anger filled her stomach. The guard still lay on the floor, and Bee found she was free for the first time in four long months. She froze for a moment, drinking in the blank wonderment of her freedom, wondering where to go, but decided to try the other doors in her hallway in case the other three were there. The doors were all locked, but Bee kept sprinting down the hallway, until she could see the end, where a tiny circular window on either side illuminated a face she had come to fear beyond anything else. The Professor stood there in the sunlight, with his arms clasped behind his back, wearing a nice black suit and a red tie.

"Where do you think you're going, Beverly?" he drawled, sounding almost like a disappointed parent.

The sight of him was the equivalent of getting the wind knocked out of her, and Bee stopped dead, gasping with wide eyes.

"You can keep running. I'm not going to stop you." He patted the wall behind him. "Come see what I see. We should be approaching Denver soon."

Bee approached warily, watching those beady eyes watch her. Fighting the urge to shudder, she walked until she could look the Professor in the eye. She remained out of the path of the sunlight, staring at her jailor with distaste.

"Look out the window, Beverly, and tell me where you think you're going to run to," he said softly, moving an arm in a demonstrative motion toward one of the circular windows.

Bee moved into the sunlight and saw only blue sky at first. Then, as she drew closer, she saw brown farmland land, misty white peaks of jagged mountains, and a distant blue lake.

The only problem was that the land was fifteen thousand feet below.

_15,000 feet below_

_February 22, 9:42 am, Denver_

Carson Breely never gave the plane passing overhead any considerable thought. He was too busy staring at his computer and trying to tune out the noisy atmosphere of the coffee shop he was sitting in. He had opted for a casual environment rather than his office; he was concerned about being watched. Carson had been waiting for an email to come in on his secure – and ridiculously slow – server, and had clicked the refresh button almost constantly since 9:30 am. He was not a patient man, and he didn't like having to wait for news, especially when it came from Mycroft Holmes. News from that man tended to be the first sign that trouble and danger were imminent. Mycroft had the nickname "Omen of Peril" at Carson's office, although no one would ever dare use it in front of him for obvious reasons.

Finally the email appeared in his private inbox, and Carson released a breath he had been holding. He ran his hands through his black hair and read the message.

_Not much longer to wait. Then we'll send you in. CM is on the move. We haven't located the information he stole, so I haven't told SH or JW anything. It's for the best. Honestly don't know how JW will take the news if he ever finds out. If you still have the wallet you procured, send it back with Anthea when you meet with her tomorrow. Trust no one else. She knows how to get it to me, and I need to see it. If you hadn't stolen it, we wouldn't have come nearly this far. Many thanks._

_Also, please don't come to the wedding. I know you mean well, but you'll just upset her. And SH is best man…heaven help us all._

_We'll be in touch._

_-M_


	10. Chapter 10-Reunion, For Better or Worse

**Author's Note: I do not by any means own Sherlock or its characters; only my own. Enjoy, and as always, thanks for reading!**

_15,000 feet above Denver, Colorado_

_9:45 am, February_

When the Professor escorted Bee to the conference room where her captivity had begun, she expected it to be empty. But when she opened the door, Hubble sat there in jeans and a white shirt, looking incredibly annoyed. His freckled nose was wrinkled, and his arms were crossed over his chest, which could not be seen due to his terrible posture. His expression softened slightly when he saw Bee, but then he returned his poisonous gaze to the Professor.

"Welcome to the next step, Beverly," the Professor said, examining his nails. "Now that you and Hubble have both tried to escape, we know you're ready. You'll be working together for the rest of the project. And now you know where you are, so we aren't going to lock you up anymore. There really isn't a point. And I know you're not going to hurt _me_." He turned his dark eyes onto hers, and they were hypnotically intense. Bee felt as though they could seep into her soul.

Before she knew it, the Professor had left the room, and she and Hubble were alone. There was a silence, and Bee found she was loath to break it. She'd grown used to being alone, and having to talk to Hubble now seemed like a burden. But she had too many questions, and her curiosity got the better of her.

"So you tried to escape too?" She slid into a black leather seat across the table from him. He blinked, and nodded. "It would have worked, too, if we weren't in a stupid airplane." He made a frustrated noise in his throat. "I feel like an idiot."

"I do too. It was pointless."

"How did you get out?" Hubble seemed genuinely interested, and pulled his posture into a less amorphous form.

"I called the guard to go to the workout room, and then I injured him so I could run. But then I ran right into Moriarty. And I think I broke the guard's toe."

Hubble seemed intimidated and impressed. "I didn't realize you could take someone out like that," he said.

"That was my assignment. Martial arts and combat." She looked down, and felt her cheeks start to burn. "How did you escape?"

"A Reverse Trojan Horse. When they brought the food cart in, I was hiding under the bed. They thought I was in the bathroom, so I crawled under the curtain of the cart when it was stopped and the cooks were distracted. When I got rolled out safely, I just jumped out and started running, but the Professor was standing right at the end of the hallway. I'm still mad I got caught, but seeing the cooks' faces when I popped out of the cart was priceless. I got to savor it for the past hour. I was only in here about that much before you."

"Great minds think alike, I guess," Bee sighed. "Where are Mark and Kendra?"

"No idea," Hubble said, looking around the windowless room. "I figured they'd be here on the plane somewhere, but it's bigger than I thought it would be."

"I know."

There was a long pause, and Bee stared at the ugly brown carpet for a while. Then a question came to her.

"Hubble, what was your assignment?"

"Well, I was a history major, so they had me try and figure out the best method for an attack by air, land, and sea based on historical attempts. Then I had to figure out what was wrong with each method, and write out how I'd stop the attack. It was a lot of desk work, but they gave me access to the workout room too. I didn't know anyone else was using it."

"So we're supposed to work together?"

"I guess." Hubble shifted in his chair, staring at her with a concerned expression. "I just wish I knew what we were working on."

Bee was about to speculate, but someone else started talking before she could open her mouth. A low, melancholy voice sounded from behind her. "We're working on a bomb," Mark said from the doorway, pushing his glasses up on his nose. He was covered in what looked like motor oil. The Professor stood behind him holding a wrench that was also drenched in the nasty black liquid with two fingers. He pushed Mark into the room with a shove on the shoulder. Mark muttered something rude to Moriarty, but the Professor was already gone again, and the door to the conference room slammed shut.

_John Watson's Stag Night_

_4:25 pm_

_London_

"Sherlock, I've got the telegrams for you to practice reading. They're on the table," John called up, leaning onto the stairwell. He put on his jacket, listening for a response, but none came save a few notes plucked on the violin. John gave up asking for now. Sherlock would find them before the wedding, at least.

"Are you coming or not?" he yelled upwards again, listening to his irritated voice echo around. Sherlock shouted something unintelligible back. He smiled, but it struck him in that moment how empty the place seemed now that he did not live there. He wondered what Sherlock was going to do when he wasn't visiting as often, when the wedding was fully planned and he was finally married. But he tried to place those thoughts out of his mind for tonight, and smiled as he heard Sherlock set foot on the stairs. A moment later, and they were out the door, with Sherlock grasping two rather large graduated cylinders. John raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. It wasn't the worst way he'd seen Sherlock go out in public. A nasty incident with Sherlock on the tube covered in blood and holding a spear came to mind.

Sherlock turned the brass knocker on the door partially sideways, and John called a taxi. No sooner had they turned the corner and sped away, however, did the door to 221 B Baker Street usher in two new visitors. Mycroft Holmes tucked his key in his coat pocket, stopped himself from correcting the knocker, and slipped inside. He was followed by a thin, well-dressed man with dark hair.


	11. Chapter 11-Stag Night

**Author's Note: As always, I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Enjoy this latest installment! Thanks for reading, and please review if you can!**  
**I'm always aiming to improve.**

_Stag Night_

_London_

"You'll have to excuse the mess. Sherlock hasn't cleaned up in ages." Mycroft Holmes ushered his guest into the untidy flat with a polite wave. His face was disapproving, and it reflected the yellow light from the windows outside. Carson Breely raised his eyebrows at the bullet holes in the wall to his right, but didn't remark. Mycroft checked his watch, brushed aside some newspapers that lay on the chair, and sat down.

"They shouldn't be back for another few hours. It's stag night for John. They'll have no idea we were here."

"And why, exactly, am I here? I understood there was some sort of emergency."

"There is. It's more of a long term emergency, but things are getting more serious. Charles just returned from his fourth trip to America in the past two months. He's almost ready to make a move. And this puts John, Sherlock, and obviously Mary at risk. You'd still do anything for her, yes?"

Carson nodded, touching an opaque white scar on his neck absently. Mycroft nodded in approval.

"I asked you to come because I have something I can only show you in person, and this is the only place I trust where we won't be watched. This is top secret. We have a major problem in the form of Charles, of course, but if we could eliminate his employer, it would solve more problems than simply Mary's. We need to take out the overseer of Charles' operations. He's far more connected to you than you'd expect. Do you remember the boy whose wallet I asked you to steal?"

Carson nodded warily. Mycroft rummaged in his briefcase, came up with a thin file, and passed it to him. "This is all I could find on Mark Williams, the owner. You already know he was one of four children that participated in some experiments by someone named Dr. Richard Stevenson, but I think you might be more familiar with his other name: the military doctor, Sean Quick."

Carson looked shocked as he flipped through the file. "You can't be serious. I thought Sean was killed in a training exercise two years ago." He frowned, and narrowed his green eyes. "I was there. I saw it happen."

"John Watson said the same thing when Sherlock jumped off a building, Carson. And look what happened." Mycroft sighed and put his fingers to his temple, his right elbow resting on the seat. He looked rather bored.

"People die and come back to haunt you. It happens. The point is, Quick moved to America and assumed a new identity, but continued practicing medicine at a college near his home. Stevenson eventually did genetic experiments on four children at the consent of their parents in some kind of under-the-table study.

"But here's where it gets interesting. I've found a connection between Quick and Charles. Charles' employer, James Moriarty, _the most dangerous criminal mastermind in the world_, found out about these children, and he is using them to plan a terror attack."

Carson was blinking quickly. In his line of work, he was used to quick debriefings, but he already felt as though he was in far over his head. "Small world," he said wryly. Mycroft didn't reply.

"So, what do you want me to do? Take out Moriarty and find the kids?"

Mycroft gave him a coy smile and took the file back. "I've already found them. I want you to get them out."

_March_

_Location Unknown_

Kendra sat at her desk in her individual quarters, cutting up slips of paper. After months of analyzing city densities, populations, and demographics, her task was almost over. On the slips, she scrawled the names of cities that fit Moriarty's specifications in blood red ink. She ran a hand through her choppy black hair, noticing how much longer it was now. When she had finished, she put all the slips face down and brushed them into a cup that sat on her desk. She could draw any city out of that glass, call the guards, and tell them her choice, but it wasn't that simple. She sat the glass back on the table, staring at it as if it were a disobedient child. She had so much anger, fear, and frustration. It was agony to be the person that had to pick the location of the bombing.

Perhaps Moriarty knew that she still believed in Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he had wanted to come up with the most terrible, guilt-inducing, psychologically scarring project for her just to punish her for hoping Sherlock wasn't dead. She had tried forcefully to get out of her assignment. She tried acting out, only to be restrained and guarded heavily. She tried sabotaging her work, only to be given one meal a day until she stopped. She even tried not doing anything at all, just staring at her bed at looking at the rounded ceiling. They'd been _really _angry then. They made her sit in the dark for 24 hours straight. Eventually, something inside her just cracked. She just sat down and did what they wanted her to do. But they were still terrible to her.

For the first three months, everything provided in her wardrobe was pink, pastel, or lacy. She hated all of it. One morning, she muttered to herself, "I'm not Barbie!" and heard someone chuckle over the intercom on her ceiling. Two weeks later, she opened up her closet to clothes that were all black. Then she knew. She knew they were listening. She knew they were watching.

Over the past few days, she had thought about that day a lot. She sat back in her chair now, still staring at that cup. Then, she picked up the scissors as if in a trance. She spread them wide, holding them up. And then, Kendra rolled up the sleeves of her black shirt, placing the cold scissors against her skin. She knew how it would look.

She stared up at the intercom, knowing they could see and hear her. "I'll do it. I really will. I'm going to." Kendra didn't have to wait long. The guards came bursting in, ready to wrestle the scissors out of her hand. But she was already across the room and out the door. She would have made it a lot farther, but one of the guards put a foot out and she tripped, sprawling on the blue carper. She stood up, red faced, in time to see Moriarty stroll up in a gray suit and gold tie.

"Well done," he sniffed. "I think you're ready for phase two." He grabbed the cup from the desk, and escorted her out of her room and down the hallway. They reached the familiar conference room and stepped inside. Mark, Hubble, and Bee were bent over the table, looking at a blueprint diagram. They all looked up as Kendra entered. "Now the gang's all here. Bring her up to speed," Moriarty barked to the other three, and then turned on the heel of his soft leather shoes and left, letting the door close behind him. Kendra frowned as she watched the door click shut, and a realization seeped into her chest like ice water. She had left the eight possible city choices in the hands of Jim Moriarty.


	12. Chapter 12-Goldfish

**Author's Note: As always, I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Thanks for reading!**

Mark watched warily as Kendra joined them in the conference room for the first time. He and the others had only been there for five days, but they had already made significant progress. They had nearly finished formulating the procedure for planting the bomb he had been forced to build. He worked quietly, letting Bee and Hubble do most of the talking. They seemed to fancy each other, and Mark felt he would only be in the way if he talked more. While he kept this outward silence, however, his brain was busy burning through the moments of his escape, and he became more and more angry each time he recounted it.

In the days prior to his daring escape, he had been given the basic tools to build a prototype of the bomb (but not activate it, of course). It was about the size of the small food cart the cooks brought to his room every day. He knew that his failsafe in the plans had gone through without being noticed, but he was still worried that once the prototype had been built someone would figure out what he had done. He had no idea where the parts, chemicals, and equipment had come from, but he knew there were a lot of things the Professor and his minions had never told him.

He had stockpiled some of the extra scraps, and began linking them together in the shape of a lock pick in the dark, when he knew he couldn't be watched. He originally had built it solely for the purpose of escaping in the event that his failsafe was discovered. The day of his unfortunate escape, he had been crouching in his room, repairing the motor he had built. Only moments earlier, something in the prototype had punctured the fuel source, and nasty liquids had deluged him. In the aftermath, he had emerged shouting curses, his hands and face had been splattered with oil; grease and sweat covered his skin, and there were metal bits all over his clothes. He reeked of chemicals, and his hair was long enough now that it almost touched his shoulders. He'd been able to see the debris clinging to the stringy strands when his hair fell forward. He knew what he must look like to those who watched him. He was becoming a mindless machine of anger and destruction, just like the bomb he was building. His room was full of toxic fumes and the carpet was no longer visible under the chaotic mess of metal, scraps, and char marks. And he couldn't take it anymore.

Of course, Mark couldn't have chosen a better time to try to escape—he was covered with slippery fluids, his desperation could be used as a powerful weapon, and the prototype was not complete enough for someone to replicate his work without him. He resolutely grabbed a wrench with slick fingers, stood up, and gripped his lock pick. He had the door open in seconds, and he slipped past the guards with ease, since no one could get a good grip on him. He'd almost made it halfway down the hallway in what Mark thought was the right direction, before the guards had caught up to him from both sides. And the Professor had materialized right then, at the front of the line of guards facing Mark. Without a second thought, Mark threw the wrench at that grinning face...and narrowly had missed. A mere three minutes later, he'd been sitting in the company of Bee and Hubble, fuming. And now he knew they were flying in an airplane, with no other plausible means of escape.

When Kendra entered the room, Mark felt some odd combination of hope and concern. He felt that the four of them could accomplish more together, and maybe find a way to thwart the bombing. Nevertheless, part of him feared Kendra. She carried herself as a warrior, with straight posture, angry eyes, and a calm face. She clearly had been able to train physically as he and the others had, and she appeared lean and confident. Mark didn't want to be on the wrong side of someone like Kendra; she could probably snap him like a pencil. But Kendra barely gave him any notice as she sat down. Hubble began to explain the situation, and her face became more and more menacing. She frowned and crossed her arms, listening to an update on her fate.

Jim Moriarty heard every word uttered, of course, either from his chair in his main office or on his Bluetooth headset. His four apprentices were still being recorded through the intercom that lay in a box on the ceiling of the conference room, but they were no longer being watched. Jim had decided it was unnecessary. There was nothing they could do, save his assignments. He had to admit to himself that using a plane was one of his best ideas yet. No one would be looking for four abduction victims in the air above them. People were so ordinary, and it made him so ANGRY sometimes. He needed Sherlock to make his life more extraordinary.

But, he thought, the four sitting in his conference room were not ordinary. They had already proven to have minds he valued, thanks to Dr. Stevenson. Their search for escape and the functionality of their brains in trying conditions were only a few of the examples of the wonders the doctor's drug had produced. Bee, Hubble, Mark, and Kendra were goldfish in a bowl to him now; imprisoned, watched, and relying on him for food, shelter, and preservation of their lives, regardless of how much they hated him. And he simply sat back and watched them dance.

_221 B Baker Street_

_Early_

Mycroft rolled his arm in its socket as he descended the stairs of Sherlock's flat. It was very sore, but it wasn't sprained. Sherlock could really have hurt him if he had tried, but the drugs that were in his brother's system had thankfully impaired the part of his brain that normally treated Mycroft as an enemy. Sherlock had simply been putting on a show, trying to get everyone to leave. Nevertheless, a seed of worry was planting itself at the center of Mycroft's brain. _It's for a case_, he heard Sherlock shouting with narrowed eyes. _Charles Augustus Magnussen._ He could still smell the grime of the drug den from when Sherlock had pressed close to him. But he hadn't thought Sherlock would take on Magnussen so soon. If it hadn't been for Lady Smallwood, Sherlock could have remained oblivious. Mycroft uttered a curse as he sat down in the black car at the curb, and Anthea didn't even look up from her phone.

Mycroft secretly hated Magnussen, and the idea of Sherlock dismantling that horrible man's hoard of power and manipulation was pleasing to him. But Mycroft was a watched man at the moment, and he needed to keep up appearances. In addition, Mycroft knew the only link between himself, Carson, Moriarty, Sherlock, and Mary Watson was Magnussen. If Sherlock got too close, he could bring Mycroft and Carson's carefully weaved plans down in one fell swoop. And that made Mycroft dizzyingly nervous.

Not only would John Watson probably kill him if he ever found out what Mycroft knew about his wife, but the entire plan to rescue the American prisoners on that plane would be ruined. His mind brought him the memory of Sherlock's face, barely lit, staring at him with half-lidded eyes on the dark 007 jumbo jet all those years ago, as Mycroft felt his first failure sinking into his bones, gluing him to the ground. He couldn't let something like that happen again, even if Sherlock was just trying to help.

He needed to eliminate Moriarty as a threat, at all costs; otherwise, that man would destroy everyone in Mycroft's life—not simply Sherlock's acquaintances. Sherlock had been wrong that day in the flat when they had played Operation. _I'm not lonely,_ Mycroft had said_. But how would you know?_ Sherlock's response had haunted him. Mycroft would never admit it aloud, but he did care deeply about those around him. He hadn't found himself any _new_ "goldfish" for quite some time. He already had found the ones that mattered by now. And he was prepared to do anything to protect them.


	13. Chapter 13-I've Got a Plane to Catch

**_Author's Note: As before, I don't own Sherlock or its characters, only my own. Sorry postings have been sporadic lately! Thanks for reading! Enjoy._**

_An Undisclosed Airport_

_An Undisclosed Location_

_Date: CLASSIFIED_

Carson Breely strode to his tiny economy airplane seat, sat, and grimaced when he realized the chair was still warm. He hated commercial flights, but for once it was a relief not to be zooming into the air on a private jet while being handed eight thick files stamped CONFIDENTIAL to peruse during the journey. He was actually looking forward to relaxing a little. Of course, he knew his flight would end with a death defying jump, but he didn't want to think about that yet. Besides, it wasn't his first time parachuting, and he knew the ropes enough now not to fear it.

As they boarded the aircraft, Carson discreetly passed an envelope wrapped with newspaper to the flight attendant. She nodded, her red curly hair bobbing enthusiastically. She gave him a knowing yet curious glance, and her eyes swiveled down from his head to his shoes as she checked him out. He was wearing a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and a red shirt. Nothing special. Carson smiled pleasantly at the flight attendant, but felt uncomfortable. She passed the package to the pilot, and Carson took his seat in economy class. He was experienced with looking inconspicuous, but that morning he had trouble pulling out a book to stare at. He felt far too jumpy. It occurred to him that he should be more worried about the parachute jump than what happened when he landed, but at this point nothing scared him nearly as much as a failed mission. Actually, he revised in his thoughts, nothing scared him nearly as much as failing this _particular_ mission. But it had to be done, and it was up to him alone. There had been a time years ago when he wouldn't have dared take on a job like this without consulting the woman who was now Mary Watson. She had been his other half and his guide. She'd led him in the right direction when they'd had to make tough calls. But now he was making this call by himself, just so he could save her.

The roaring of Carson's heartbeat in his ears eclipsed the sound of the plane taking off. His adrenaline was kicking in, as it always did before a jump. To relax, his eyes didn't stare at the seatback in front of him; they instead perused a face from his memory. He could picture every detail of her small, angular face in his mind. He knew the shapes of her hands better than his own, and he knew where each and every one of her scars lay etched on her skin. He had loved her once, and he missed her now. The pain came at full force again. He'd been quelling it ever since Mycroft had contacted him after Mary's files had been stolen, but now that he was ready to jump out of an airplane for her, he was rethinking his regrets at separating from her when she went freelance. It had been a mistake to leave her, in retrospect, but perhaps it was for the best. John seemed to be everything she could ask for, and Carson was happy she was finally free. He'd be even happier when she was finally safe, too. And that would begin with his very literal leap of faith.

About an hour into the flight, he moved to the restroom at the back of the plane. On cue, his body double, George, stood from his hidden seat in the galley and adjusted his outfit. They were dressed identically to create the impression Carson hadn't simply disappeared during the flight. George waited the proper amount of time, and strolled back to Carson's seat casually. Carson then entered the restroom, inserted a small key into the keyhole tucked under the soap dispenser, and turned. At once, there was a shudder and the restroom descended to the luggage area below. The motion ceased, the door opened, and lights on the floor lit the otherwise heavy darkness. Carson removed his key and the bathroom elevator rose back to its normal position. He could smell the concoction of exhaust, leather, fast food, and sweat that became the classic airplane scent. Gripping a side door known only to him, he slowly pulled it open to reveal an orange chute that would allow him to depart the aircraft. He pulled on the protective gear stowed in a plastic bag hanging on the door, strapped on his parachute, and placed an oxygen mask over his lips just in case. He climbed onto the entrance of the chute, slid down it like a slide, and closed the door behind him. The latch clicked closed, Carson let go of the handle, and then he slid down the chute. All at once, he was falling. And in that moment when his stomach was in his throat and his brain was thousands of feet above him, he grinned. So far, so good.

_Simultaneously_

Jim sat in his crooked and chaotic office on the plane, talking on the phone. He was becoming very exasperated with Julia, the woman from the college he had taught at who simply would not accept his excuse for being on leave for such a long period of time.

"What part of mental health treatment do you not understand?" he rolled his eyes.

"All of it, Jim, but I need some details. Which facility are you at?" she had an excessively high voice, and her tone oozed condescension. Jim snapped his pencil into two jagged pieces as she spoke.

"It's Professor. And I've got a live in doctor."

"And who is this doctor? Do you have a note, or any medication prescriptions?"

"His name is Stevenson. Richard Stevenson. He works at Mercy Medical Institute."

"Any medications?" Julia persisted. Jim flicked an eraser shaving viciously across the table.

"Lots, and I can't pronounce them. I taught history, not pharmacology."

"Have your doctor send me a fax then. I need some kind of proof. Otherwise you won't get paid during your leave."

"You know what," Jim said, straightening his most expensive tie, "never mind. I resign."

He didn't need the money anyway, and he reviled people who were too nosy for their own good. Besides, now that he had decided which city to bomb, he didn't really have time to speak with the Julias of the world. He hung up the phone with pleasurable finality, stood, and fastened the button on his suit coat. It was a rich thick brown, luxurious and soft against his thin shoulders. He left the office, and walked to the conference room, ready to break the news. He interrupted the four students as they were poring over textbooks, blueprints, and plans. Kendra and Bee looked up suddenly, Hubble frowned, and Mark turned his head to peer scornfully at their visitor from his position on the floor. Mark was crouching next to his nearly finished prototype for the bomb. All evidence of motor oil had been sufficiently cleaned, Jim noticed.

"How are the plans coming along?" he asked. Jim saw Hubble slowly let go of Bee's hand when he thought the Professor wasn't looking. Jim smiled, his white teeth gleaming with saliva.

"Almost done," Kendra said shortly. She crossed her arms, her lip curling as she stared at him.

"I've decided where we're going to deploy the bomb."

There was a deadly silence that seemed to penetrate every molecule of the room with poison. Mark swallowed visibly and Kendra became even paler, if that was possible. "Where is it?" Hubble said, and even he sounded a little weak.

"Guess," Jim said, and his eyes began scanning them, eager to play a game. "I'll give you a hint. Think east." He clasped his hands behind his back.

"Not New York," Bee gasped, her face turning crimson with dread. Mark adjusted his glasses nervously.

"Nope." Jim licked his lips. He loved watching them panic.

"Florida?" Hubble looked sick.

"Farther east." The four of them looked confused. Jim raised his eyebrows, astonished at their limited guesses.

"It's not in America." Kendra finally said, with her eyes boring into Jim's. He liked her fierce disposition, and he grinned. "He is taking us to England. Aren't you?" Kendra addressed him as though he were something disgusting she had just stepped in. "You just can't go another minute without Sherlock Holmes."

"Guilty," he sang. "We leave tonight. Pack your bags." He winked and sauntered out of the room, savoring the looks of sheer surprise and fear on their faces. It was great to be Jim Moriarty, he thought. He didn't know it yet, but he was wrong.


	14. Chapter 14-Freaky Friday

**_A/N: Apologies for the unintended hiatus. Enjoy this posting! As usual, I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Please R&R if you can!_**

_Friday_

"You don't tell him. You don't tell John."

The words wafted into Sherlock Holmes' ears like morphine, low and soothing. Their meaning, however, instilled in his stomach the feeling that he was being eaten by acid. Of course, the hole in his body from Mary's bullet could have been part of that painful feeling, but Sherlock was experiencing so much emotion that he could not convey it. There was so much anger at such a loss of trust, a fear for John's safety, and compassion for Mary's predicament. He managed to stare into her eyes to convey his answer, although he already knew that John would eventually need to know.

Mary looked convinced and mournful, and she turned away, her shoes clicking on the black and white speckled tiles as she walked back to the door.

He blinked and watched as she left the room. The blinds shut most of the light out of his room, but little beams escaped through chinks and pooled like pale molten gold on his white sheets. He'd hardly had time to process the fact that Mary had nearly killed him (and certainly saved his life) until now. He lay there for a moment, consulting his mind palace, but eventually exiled all those thoughts. For now, he needed to only be concerned about his means of escape.

Unfortunately, his blissful quiet was then abruptly interrupted.

His brother had come through the door, a grimace on his face as if he had just eaten something nasty. When the door was shut behind him, Mycroft turned to face Sherlock. Upon seeing him covered in tubes and bandaged up, Mycroft promptly swore. Sherlock was shocked. He had never heard Mycroft utter profanities before, and this was definitely not the worst scenario Sherlock had ever been in.

"What?" he said. Mycroft frowned at him for a moment. He didn't say it, but the first answer to the question bubbled into being in his mind. He'd almost lost Sherlock. And his lost would have broken Mycroft's heart. However, there was no use for sentimentality in this instance—or any, really—and rage came as a helpful substitute.

"What did I specifically ask you _not_ to do, Sherlock? I told you to stop putting pressure on Magnussen. And then you break into his office to steal his documents. What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what has happened?"

"I've been shot," Sherlock offered. Mycroft moved closer, his face reddening.

"This is not a joke, Sherlock. You have put me in a terrible position, as well as Mary and John. I needed Magnussen to think he was safe. There are reasons I asked you to stay away from him, and…well…you've been an idiot."

Sherlock had never seen Mycroft this angry. Although, this was not the first time he had been called an idiot by his brother. Nevertheless, Mycroft was acting quite out of character. There were reasons that Sherlock thought "The Iceman," was an extremely appropriate nickname for him.

"What is so awful about taking down another bully, Mycroft? Just because he has leverage over your department and over Mary, you don't want to make him angry? If I'd succeeded, we'd have taken the letters from him by now, and probably Mary's secret file too." Sherlock toggled his morphine drip down a notch.

Mycroft breathed deeply, curling his fingers into fists to keep his temper in check. "But you _didn't_ succeed, Sherlock. I asked you to leave Magnussen alone because he has information on Mary's nasty past. He stole it the night you stopped the bomb from blowing up Parliament. He knew you'd be distracted, and that all the offices would be empty. He has the documents that could put John and Mary at serious risk. He can wipe you all off the map with it. Terror cells, angry agents, you name it; they will come after you and your friend and his wife. He knows you're close to the information, and Mary _did_ just try to kill him. You've just made him very desperate. And I wonder if you can guess which criminal mastermind he is going to call for help?"

Sherlock did not move or speak. The fact that Charles Augustus Magnussen worked for Moriarty was not a surprise, but it was somewhat unsettling to hear Mycroft confirm that with his question. It was like a terrible myth being proven true. The danger was more real now.

"What do we do?" Sherlock gazed up at his brother and decreased his morphine to minimum levels. The time for apologies would come later, and he needed to wake up. For the first time, Mycroft smiled. "You mean, what have I already done?"

_Simultaneously_

_Albany, New York_

James Moriarty stepped off the plane to a chilly wind as they landed in New York. This was the first daylight landing the plane had made; all the landings and takeoffs had been made while his four planners had been sleeping. He had made sure the sedation medication was in their evening meals on the nights they needed to land so they would not notice or try to escape. It was necessary now that they land to refuel, restock the kitchen, and make sure everything was in order before they left for England once more. The bases they landed at were always ready to receive them; Jim was great at charming the airport officials. Just as he had broken into three places at once all those years ago, he used same method to secure ample equipment for his plans now. It remained the best way of which he was aware.

Bee, Mark, Kendra, and Hubble were awake for this landing, and Jim was relatively sure none of them would try to run. Nevertheless, each of them was handcuffed to an armed guard in a black suit and then marched off the giant plane onto the pavement outside. It was the first time any of them had felt sunlight on their skin or smelled fresh air in a very long time, and the small amount of bliss on their faces was evident even from Jim's position several meters from them. It was all very boring and their happiness would be ephemeral, and Jim checked his watch again to ensure they were not behind schedule. They would only be here for three hours, and needed to take off immediately afterward to arrive in accordance with Jim's plan.

From the base, several more guards in black suits strolled forward and spoke with Jim, eager to trade places with the old guards who were being given a break. They made preparations to begin refueling and replenishing the stores. Jim contacted the airport they would be landing at in England to make sure everything was in order. Then, he and his four students were escorted to a waiting room with plush golden sofas, rich patterned red wallpaper, and a water dispenser. The group was very quiet, and Bee, Hubble, Kendra, and Mark all gave him carcinogenic stares.

Bee's arms and legs were crossed so tightly that she looked like a Gordian knot. Kendra and Hubble had both adopted abysmal posture; they were both slouching downward and extending their legs out, posteriors nearly sliding off the couch. Mark sat on the end a sofa with one hand propping his face up, his dark eyebrows in such a deep frown that Jim was wondering if he would be stuck like that if he held that position for much longer.

The waiting was tedious, and Bee investigated the handcuff around her left wrist. It looked relatively flimsy, but after one look at the frankly gigantic handgun in her guard's holster, she gave up on the idea of twisting or breaking out of the cuff. No doubt, she was stronger now, and perhaps stronger than a normal person, thanks to the injection that had landed her in this situation in the first place. However, she still feared to try anything.

Eventually, they were escorted back onto the plane. Bee was crying again as she left the sunlight and fresh air again, and Jim rolled his eyes. The guards lined up and boarded the plane again, all dressed in black suits and earpieces. The plane doors were sealed, the roaring noise of takeoff came and went, and then the handcuffs were finally removed from Jim's prisoners. Jim watched as they rose into the air, buoyant above the clouds and soaring under the scorching sun. He smiled to himself as he looked forward to the glorious days ahead.

_14,000 feet below_

_Friday, Albany, New York_

Malcom Petty awoke to find himself handcuffed to a locked bathroom stall the color of dirty snow. There was a dusty rag tied around his mouth to keep him from screaming, and he was sitting there in his boxers and his undershirt without his earpiece or his gun. Even his shoes and socks had been taken. Malcom couldn't remember anything prior to his awakening in this stall. He'd been waiting for the news that he could board the plane, and then…nothing. There was, however, a deep, dull pain throbbing from the center of his skull to behind his eyes. There was what felt like a giant bruise on the back of his head. He was probably concussed. He looked to his left, where folded clothes sat beside him with a note. It was a pair of dark jeans, a red shirt, and a black leather jacket. There was even a pair of tennis shoes that were two sizes too small. Malcom reached for the wrinkled note with his bare foot, clutching it between two toes. It was written on torn notebook paper in large, authoritative handwriting. As he read it, his eyes bulged and he struggled frantically against the cuffs.

**_Bet it's been a freaky Friday for you. Hope you can get yourself out of this one before the police show up. I think you have about six minutes. Thanks for the clothes. I've returned the favor._**

As if on cue, sirens began to blare in the distance.


	15. Chapter 15-Armed

**A/N: I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Thanks for reading! Please R&R! Hope you like these twists.**

_Hour 2 of the flight to England_

Kendra and Carson sat across from each other in her room, with Kendra sitting in her desk chair and Carson slouching on the side her bed. Kendra was still scowling at him, despite how pitiful Carson appeared at the moment. His tie was loose around his neck, his suit jacket had been cast away haphazardly as he had sat down, and he was cradling his left arm.

"I think you broke my arm," Carson said accusingly. Kendra appraised him, but didn't apologize. About ten minutes ago, she had called a guard to escort her to the gym, as Bee had done, and had attacked the guard the moment he'd entered the door. She didn't really know what had come over her; she just wanted to cause some trouble. Delay things if possible.

She'd gone for his arms first, and dealt the guard a painful blow to the left arm before she had looked up into a familiar face. At that point, all thoughts of escape or lashing out had drained from her mind. She had led Carson silently into her room, shut the door, and turned on her hair dryer. The noise muffled sound well enough that no one could eavesdrop through the intercom.

"Do you want to explain to me what you're doing here, Harry?" She crossed her arms.

"Not really. I don't feel like talking with you much right now. Why did you _do_ that?" He tried flexing his left fingers, but grimaced in pain. He could feel the beginnings of a bruise forming.

"All the guards look the same to me. How was I supposed to know it was you? Your name tag says Malcom, you call yourself Carson, and I know your name is Harry. And you were supposed to be in England, teaching chemistry. What happened?"

There was a pause as Carson debated whether to answer his cousin's question or preserve his angry silence.

"I'm not a chemist, Kendra. I was in England, but I was working for an intelligence agency. My boss knows all about Dr. Stevenson and his experiments, and he'd been tracking Moriarty's movements in America. So he brought me in and told me about what was done to you by a doctor funded by Moriarty, and he asked me to find you before someone else did. At first I couldn't believe you were involved. I must say, I thought it was a joke. A bizarre joke. And I am sorry about what happened to you, by the way."

"I thought it was a joke too," Kendra sighed, her angry expression softening a bit. Carson continued.

"I arrived in America under the name of Carson Breely, but someone must have known I was coming, because the information in the code I cracked from Moriarty's followers was jumbled. It said you were in Colorado, and so the address I thought was yours actually led me to Mark. I couldn't prevent the kidnapping because I was still looking for _you_, and didn't realize there was another target until it was too late. I robbed Mark when I saw the car pulling up behind him, but I wasn't prepared enough to stop him from getting grabbed. As it was, I lost my best knife."

Kendra remembered the gash across Mark's face, and recalled his testimony about the thrown knife. And it had been Harry all along! She felt oddly proud.

Carson was still talking. "Afterward, I reported what had happened to all the agencies, and my boss and I have been tracking you since the plane took off for the first time. Apparently since his Coventry incident, he tracks planes very carefully, and came across yours. It was unregistered but unreported. Moriarty probably paid people off not to say anything."

Kendra sat up straighter at the words. "Wait," she said. "Did you just say Coventry? As in the top secret code-cracking plan John Watson detailed in his blog? The one that was Mycroft's idea?"

Carson widened his eyes. "I wasn't supposed to say that," he said.

"Your boss is _Mycroft_?" Kendra looked outraged. "I thought you just got all your information from the Empty Hearse! Is Sherlock alive? You have to tell me."

"That's right," he said, struck by his realization, "You wouldn't know. Sherlock came back several months ago. Won't tell anyone how he really did survive though."

"He's alive, and you knew the whole time?" She smacked him on his good arm, and Carson yelped.

"Easy!" he exclaimed. "Your slaps hurt a lot more than you imagine."

"Good," she said, scowling. She nevertheless looked elated at the news of Sherlock's return.

"I didn't know he was alive until after he came back," Carson said defensively, rubbing his arm again.

"Why didn't you tell me you were an agent working for Mycroft?"

"Because it's top secret!"

Kendra merely shrugged. "But that doesn't explain what you're doing here, on the plane, now."

"I'm working undercover as a guard to be Mycroft's eyes. When we get to England, Sherlock and Mycroft need as much information passed to them as possible, and I can only do that from this." He tapped the earpiece. "Mine is being tapped by them. It's also got a video feed, but I switched that off a few minutes ago. It makes this terrible noise right in my ear and with that hair dryer on, I couldn't think straight."

"Do you know how are we going to get out of this alive and without bombing a city?" Kendra asked, still skeptical and processing what her cousin had told her.

Of course, that was a question Carson had actually asked Mycroft about an hour before.

"We have a plan," Carson said as he rose and pulled his suit coat on again. As he left the room, he sincerely hoped those words would prove true.


	16. Chapter 16-Johnny Doesn't Know

**_A/N: Once again, apologies for the delay. Please R&R! I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Thanks for reading!_**

_London_

"It's Christmas!" exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, clasping his hands and nearly (and painfully) ripping out his IV.

"It's about two months early for that, Sherlock." John Watson patted his friend on the shoulder. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.

"John, this is the first time he's agreed to see me since the shooting. It might be my only chance to get a look at those glasses. A tiny, portable Appledore. He's a proper genius. If I didn't hate the man…" Sherlock trailed off, watching John's face become a pallid shade and his eyes becoming dark. For reasons Sherlock could understand but couldn't sympathize with, John and Mary had hit a rough patch after the shooting. Sherlock thought it would have taken a whole lot more than a secret agent wife to upset John this much. Upon his reentry into London after being dead for two years, it had only taken John about a week to come around.

This business with Mary was causing John grief, but Sherlock couldn't really complain. Of course, he _had_ been shot and nearly died, but he was healing, and John seemed to be at Baker Street more often than his own place with Mary. The whole spat had given Sherlock some more time with John to solve cases from his flat. Nothing more important than a six, of course, since he was still being confined to Baker Street, subjected to tedious medical examinations, and made to wear a ghastly speckled hospital robe instead of his silk midnight blue one. But it was something to do; a distraction from the Grand Distraction, which Mycroft had already sprung on him about multiple times when John had left the room. Going after Magnussen was much more than simply trying to clear Mary's name. Magnussen was going to lead them to Moriarty. But John did not know this.

Sherlock was aware of Carson's relationship to Mary, and had not dared mention it to John. However, if he was to eventually enlist John's help in this case, his friend would need to know eventually. Mary obviously hadn't kept in contact with Carson, but Sherlock had a feeling in his bones that this case would end with a lot of skeleton-packed closets being thrust open. He was dwelling on these thoughts for a while, staring at the corner of the wall he had shot so long ago. A sudden noise like a door slamming jolted him out of his thoughts. He blinked, realizing his violin was now perched in his hand, his fingers plucking the strings.

John was staring at him intently now while standing in the doorway, holding a newspaper that still sparkled with some melting snowflakes. He wearing a sweater as if he'd just come in from outside. Judging by the amount of water that was now discoloring the tops of John's shoes, he'd run through the snow to the shop around the corner for groceries too. They had already been unloaded and put away. Mrs. Hudson had even taken his skull ] from the mantelpiece _again_. He hadn't even seen her come in.

"How long was I—" he began to ask.

"About forty minutes." John thrust a hot mug into Sherlock's hand. "Drink this. You look ill again."

"There's no eyeball in it," he said, sounding disappointed. John just rolled his eyes and unfurled the paper. "When do you meet with Magnussen?"

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Nine," John replied, consulting the front page of news.

"I meet him at noon. I think I'll have the pasta," Sherlock said, as another wave of pain radiated from his wound. His fingers went to the bullet wound absently, and he hoped John wouldn't notice. Sherlock had been going without his morphine the entire morning, needing to be at full attention for his meeting with Magnussen. He was in luck; John seemed to be reading a story on the second page and hadn't seen anything.

"Are you really wearing that?" John asked after a few minutes, looking over the top of the newspaper and consulting Sherlock's hospital gown.

"Yes," he said definitively, sensing John was questioning it. "Why?"

"Well, meeting the 'Napoleon of Blackmail' in a robe in the cold of winter seems a bit strange. Are you even wearing pants?" Sherlock smiled at the memory of Buckingham Palace, but didn't answer that question.

"I'm appealing to his belief that I am weak. I'm going to evoke his buried fear from his traumatic experience during the shooting. If I showed up looking dressed, strong and terrifying, as I usually am," –John gave a little snort here—"he won't be reminded of that fear, and won't think of me as being the reason he is still alive. He needs to think he is indebted to me for taking a bullet to prevent his near-murder." As an afterthought, he added, "And I want him to see the morphine drip." He jostled the bagged liquids hanging from the silver bar that hung over him like a mechanized palm frond shade.

John looked skeptical, but didn't say anything beyond "Drink that, Sherlock. You'll feel better if you're not dehydrated," before returning to his newspaper. At that moment, two phones began to ring.

Sherlock picked up his, and saw who was calling. He answered immediately to hear the latest recordings from Carson's tap and the snide voice of his dear brother. As he listened, he thought about Mycroft's laptop came to him. It had recordings of Moriarty insulting Magnussen, and detailing his plans for Charles to be caught or killed once he had fulfilled his purpose. "No loose ends," Moriarty had said. It occurred to Sherlock that the laptop would be something very tempting to offer in exchange for Appledore. A secret for a secret.

John saw the readout on his phone, stared at it in contemplation for two rings, and put it back on the side table to go to voicemail. His hand went to the A. flash drive, which he had hung around his neck to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Today, it felt like the albatross hung around the neck of the ancient mariner. Such a strange thing it was to love someone and have her then become a stranger, he thought, and he got up. Sherlock was still on the phone, so John left without saying goodbye as he went to return to the silent apartment and his lying wife.


	17. Chapter 17-Deals and Discoveries

**_A/N: Thanks for reading this newest installment. As always, I do not own Sherlock or its characters. Enjoy, and stay tuned as this story continues into the final stretch. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!_**

_December 20__th_

"I believe I remember telling you to be good in California, James Moriarty," Mycroft Holmes' haughty voice crackled through the loudspeaker on Jim's desk. Jim propped his feet on the table, admiring his new shoes.

"Well, I'm not in California anymore."

Mycroft waited a few moments, and then Sherlock joined the telephone conversation.

"Clearly this is something important, otherwise you wouldn't have called. I should never have given my phone number to Janine. What do you want?" Jim's responding grin was like a strong cup of coffee; rich, dark, and bitter.

"I want you to stop meddling."

"You're going to have to be more specific," Mycroft said crisply. Sherlock added, "Meddling is my job, if you remember."

"Don't kill Charles Augustus Magnussen." Jim waited, taking delight in imagining their expressions of surprise and skepticism.

"Why not?" Sherlock sounded annoyed.

"Because I still need him. Don't kill Magnussen, and I won't kill your four little goldfish after they finish their jobs."

There was a very long pause. Jim thought they might have hung up, but the speaker light was still blinking, signifying the call was engaged. Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"You have a deal, but we want proof of life."

"Not possible." Jim said, but he clicked his fingers and the guard named Malcom came into the office. Covering the speaker with his hands, Jim gave him the instructions to find the four and bring them to him.

"Then we don't have a deal," Mycroft said impatiently.

"One moment, good men," Jim said cheerily, and muted the speaker. It was time for Bee, Kendra, Mark, and Hubble to meet Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, proper archenemies for the proper archvillain.

Carson raced down the hallway with Malcom's name tag bouncing on his chest. He burst into the conference room. The blinds hanging on the opposite side of the door swung wildly as Carson stood there taking in the strange scene before him. Hubble and Bee had clearly just broken apart from what appeared to have been a long embrace. Kendra was sitting on the floor staring at the bomb building plans and holding Mark's hand, while Mark had just finished saying, "It won't work as long as this one part is the wrong size, and I'm the only one who knows about the flaw." Kendra, who Carson had always known to be tough and abrasive, had a sort of sappy look on her face, as if she were admiring a newborn kitten. All four of them reddened as soon as Carson made his appearance, and their varied expressions melted into the same one of flaming embarrassment.

Carson was at a loss for words for a moment, but then remembered what he had been sent to do. "I've been listening in. Moriarty's talking to Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes right now." Kendra lifted her head sharply, her eyes widening hopefully. "He wants proof of life, and sent me to get all four of you. You're about to speak to my employer on the phone. Be polite," he said, watching them. They were not much younger than he was, but the restoration of their hopes of rescue seemed to bring a youthful glow onto their faces again. The prospect of the best detective in the world and the most dangerous man in England helping set them free seemed to erase the telltale signs of the harrowing experience they had had.

Carson marched them to Jim's main office, which was just as haphazard and unhinged as it had appeared on the day they first met the man. Jim had his feet propped on the crooked table, and his eyes seemed to examine the four captives with silent amusement. He removed the speaker from mute, and Carson exited the room to give the impression that he was not listening.

"Here's your proof of life. Say something, each of you." They all said hello, and the two brothers on the other line seemed satisfied. Jim shooed the four away, and continued his conversation. Carson, of course, heard every word as he escorted Bee, Kendra, Hubble, and Mark back to the conference room. Then, Carson pulled Mark aside and closed the conference room door so that he was alone with the secret agent in the hallway.

"I need to show you something, and then I want you to tell the others," Carson said. Without elaboration, he walked quietly and quickly with Mark in tow until they reached the back of the plane. Hidden behind the entrance to the galley in a dark and empty corner was a small piece of carpet with an almost invisible square cut into it. He wrenched it upward, and it revealed a stash of pill bottles and glass vials full of liquid medicine that glistened like red and blue jewels.

"What is all of this?" Mark asked, his eyebrows nearly connecting in concentration.

"This," Carson pulled out a rather large bottle of tiny, round, white pills, "is for sedation. They've been mixing it in your food so that you don't feel the need to escape constantly. They used to give you heavy doses when we took off and landed the airplane, so you wouldn't realize what was happening. It's manufactured to dull your senses and emotions."

"But we did all try to escape, a while ago," Mark protested.

"Yes, _all at the same time, on the same day_. Mark, that doesn't seem odd to you? He's controlling your emotions, because he knows that the four of you could overpower him given the proper circumstances."

Mark stared at the pills in profound realization, and he set his jaw. "Wow," he said. "I'd be furious, but maybe I'm too sedated to feel it properly." Carson laughed for the first time since he'd boarded the plane, and Mark joined in. After a few more merry moments, Carson changed the subject.

"So are you and Kendra…" he let the rest of the sentence take on its own meaning in Mark's head, who shrugged.

"I don't know. We just like being together. It's not as lonely."

"Mark, if you ever do anything to hurt Kendra, I will sedate you with these pills and tattoo terribly humiliating things onto your forehead. And then I'll turn you over to Kendra so she can beat you up."

Mark looked fearful and uncomfortable. "I'll treat her well, I promise."

"Good." There was a heavy silence, and Carson was grateful Mark finally ended it.

"What are the other vials?"

Carson glanced around to make sure they were still alone, and brought up a glass flask with a clear red liquid bouncing sluggishly within. It was icy to the touch. He passed it to Mark, who read the label. The name was unpronounceable. Carson took a deep breath. "This, Mark, is the reason you four are on this ship. It is the same serum Dr. Stevenson created, and it runs through your veins right now."

From Mark's reaction, it looked as though he was overcoming the urge to throw the repulsive substance against the nearby speckled wall, but he instead simply gripped it until the fringes of his fingers turned white.

"What is it doing here, on this plane?" Mark seemed to be wrestling with his fear, attempting to get it under control. Carson felt a stab of sour pity cut into his heart like an acid knife.

When Carson had first begun his mission to free the four captives, he had wondered if being genetically altered could be a good thing—no more disease, stronger muscles, better minds. Now, as he watched Mark's face undergo a series of emotions that seemed to be a kaleidoscope of the skin, he decided he wouldn't wish that kind of power on anyone. Who knew what the side effects could be? And, in the case of these four, having those kinds of enhancements made them targets for terror organizations or businesses hoping to exploit super humans. Mark's reaction made him wonder what Kendra and the others could possibly be going through, since they kept brave faces up in front of him most of the time. He felt so much anger toward Dr. Stevenson; he wanted to hurt the man, to make him suffer. But that was not his job, no matter how much he wanted it to be. He knew that sometimes there were things you would like to do, and things you could do, but that did not mean you should always do them.

Carson exhaled through his teeth. "I have several ideas about what they will use it for, Mark, but I hope all of them are wrong. I only know we need to get the four of you off this plane soon."


	18. Chapter 18-Clarity

**_A/N: As always, I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Thanks for reading! I'm beginning to write the ending, and would welcome any suggestions or ideas. Enjoy!_**

_December 24_

The plane landed early that day, just after lunch had been served in the conference room. Mark, Bee, Hubble, and Kendra stared at the sandwiches and miscellaneous vegetables that had been set on white ceramic plates for them. As soon as the galley cart had rolled out and the door had swung shut, Mark said firmly, "Remember the plan."

Hubble looked longingly at the meal, but steeled himself against the desire to eat. They had stopped ingesting any of the food given to them as of this morning. After Mark's discovery with Carson, he had stopped eating for a full twenty four hours to test how long the medicine needed in order to exit his system. Mark had told them later how, immediately after a full day had passed, he had felt anxiety and anger flare up inside him like a lit match. He'd felt the need to escape, to run, to express his anger, and his senses had seemed vibrant, raw, and harsh compared to the subdued reality he had been accustomed to for over a year. It had been liberating and terrifying to feel a full spectrum of fear and joy once again. Mark had told them about the vial of red serum, but the possibilities of what it was to be used for scared all of them too much for them to consider at the present moment. At Bee's request, they focused only on their plans to escape. They were going to need a Christmas miracle.

As they stared at their plates now, they continued their fast with reassuring looks to one another. The plan, Hubble constantly reminded himself, was of utmost importance. They could eat when it was all over, and they would never need to submit themselves to those sedation pills again. Besides, his mind was already beginning to clear and expand, like a bubble rising through the water to break the surface. Hubble felt as though the colors of the room seemed brighter.

Mark had also, thankfully, come up with another plan to ensure hope. He had told them about Leonardo da Vinci, and about the part with the tiny error. This would prevent the bomb from being triggered, assuming that Moriarty had overlooked the flawed design. It was, as Mark constantly reminded them, their only hope. When Moriarty figured out why the bomb would not go off, the four of them would need to be as far away from him as possible. As Bee had pointed out last night, rather ruthlessly, six feet under them was the best case scenario. Hubble and the others agreed, but Hubble disliked the idea of causing any kind of death, even if it was that of James Moriarty. Sometimes Bee said things like that, and it made Hubble simultaneously afraid and attracted to her. He was grateful to have her there with him. Going through this experience alone would quite possibly have killed him. Even in his current situation, the experience still might.

The flatware on the conference table jittered as the plane taxied to a stopping point. They were on an abandoned air strip, one of many that Moriarty had commandeered, although Hubble could not fathom a guess as to how it was done. They had been making more frequent stops over the past few days, as Mark had requested certain supplies, and the actual bomb he had designed was being built in three parts at each of these bases. They really only spent time in the air to travel now, but the four of them had resolved to sleep and take meals in their conference room. It was a meager comfort, but they preferred to be somewhere they were comfortable with.

Over the past two days, Hubble and Bee had been taken by a seventeen-guard-escort to survey the location under which the bomb would be placed. They then were told to get rid of most of the guards, and they did so with a few well-placed kicks and punches. The guards were now bound and gagged in the exercise room on the plane, and Moriarty's false guards had taken over their positions. Kendra had come along on these visits to inspect the ventilation systems and foundation structure, as well as finalize the demographics of the people in nearby areas (all important and wealthy government families, according to one of the injured guards she had spoken to once his gag had been removed). She spent most of the time on these visits crossing her arms and staring at the location Moriarty had picked with a fear and guilt that stained her face into a sallow, contorted mess.

Hubble and his three companions tore up pieces of the sandwiches, moving the food around to make it look as though they had eaten. Kendra even took some of the food and placed it in the trash bin under some discarded papers.

They descended the exit stairs of the gigantic black plane and walked out onto the runway, inhaling the dead air of a cold winter and blinking at the sunlight. Hubble, who had once been tan from his daily practices outside, found his skin now to be the most fragile, sickly kind of white. The last time he had looked this pale was when he had mononucleosis for three months, and had stayed inside the whole time. He hadn't thought about his life before his abduction in a long time. Perhaps it was because of the medication he had been given. As he abstained from the doses, the memories came back stronger, as did the nostalgia, the sadness, and the anger. Rather than feel weak at his lack of food, he felt as though he could run a thousand miles on motivation alone.

Moriarty descended the stairs behind them, but rather than follow their procession to the base, he strolled purposely to a black car with a driver who was holding the passenger door open for him. Moriarty said something to two of the guards that had escorted him to the vehicle, and they nodded in understanding. As they returned to bring up the back of the group Hubble was walking with, Hubble recognized Carson as one of them. He discreetly touched his earpiece and nodded at Hubble.

He glanced at Bee, hoping to reassure her, but Bee looked rather peculiar. She was gazing out into the distance, with blank eyes and a bored expression. Kendra and Mark seemed to be more aware than usual, gazing at their surroundings and at each other with their eyes zipping around. Bee seemed to be in a kind of trance. She was still herself, but she didn't seem to be as alert as the rest of them.

"Are you okay?" he whispered as they walked under the bleaching winter sun toward the shady base. Bee blinked and regarded him with her full attention, tucking her hands in her coat pocket.

"I'm fine," she said slowly, "I just think the medicine is taking longer to wear off for me. I feel sort of sluggish." There was a dim light of fear in her eyes, as if she were worried she wouldn't be alert enough in time for our plan to work.

"We'll be okay. Just drink a lot of water. Maybe that will flush it out faster," he said, with an urge to hold her hand. He restrained himself, looking around him warily at the numerous guards overseeing their safe entrance. Carson was among them, and he made no movement of recognition, though Hubble took one look at the agent's earpiece and knew that Sherlock and Mycroft were on their side. They only had to persevere a little while longer.

A voice in Hubble's mind kept telling him to run, to flee, to escape, and it was getting louder by the hour. It was actually becoming annoying. Nevertheless, Hubble needed that voice, that flight instinct, for the next few hours. It was going to come in extremely handy.


	19. Chapter 19-Merry Christmas, Sherlock

**A/N: Apologies for the long gap between chapters. Only a few more to go before the end! Thanks for reading, and enjoy. I'd love any feedback if you feel so inclined. As always, I don't own Sherlock or its characters.**

From Sherlock Holmes' holding cell, he had a fantastic view of a white cinder block wall.

It was exactly the shade of white he'd been hoping for, the kind that looked like the wrapping on his favorite cigarettes. He stared at it, leaning his left temple against the vertical black bars and contemplating how much he could use a smoke right now. It had been a long day, a long evening, and a long past six hours in interrogation…with his brother on the opposite side of the table. And they'd taken his coat.

His brother had sat across a black table strewn with thick cream-colored files, grimacing and talking of consequences and paperwork and lives at stake. It was so much like his family's Christmas dinners of old that he found this particular Christmas night to be relatively normal. Maybe except for the cell.

Of course, there was the issue of his "behavior," as Mycroft had called it. Both of them knew the past twenty four hours were a great example of Sherlock's idiocy…who knew one word could make Sherlock Holmes feel like a complete fool?

Appledore.

When the nature of Appledore had become clear to him—far later than he was proud of—the rest of Moriarty's instructions had made more sense. Of course the man had needed Magnussen alive; that was the only way to access the information on Mary Watson. The files had been stolen simply so Magnussen could commit them to memory, and they had been burned in the Guy Fawkes bonfire the night he'd rescued John. Magnussen had even been watching the footage when Sherlock had entered Appledore, taunting him.

And it had been so easy to decide his course of action from that point on. His decision was made based on 30% desperation, 40% reason, 25% effort to fulfill his final vow, and 5% genuine dislike of that horrible man.

Sherlock was still sitting in his cell as Mycroft tore down the hallway now, breathing heavily as he came to a screeching halt on the other side of the bars. Sherlock raised his eyebrows lazily.

"What is wrong with you, Sherlock?" Mycroft's ears were no doubt about to shoot out steam at any minute.

"Didn't we just have this conversation?"

"I'm not talking about how you shot Charles Magnussen, I'm talking about your more recent actions. This is a serious matter. Is this some sort of joke to you?" Mycroft put a hand to his forehead, which was sweaty and pink. "They wouldn't even let me give you a phone call at first. You don't have the right to one. I had to persuade them. I imagined you'd call John for a change of clothes, seeing as you're still spattered with blood. And look what happens when I give you even an inch of wiggle room."

"What are you talk-"

"You ordered fish and chips with your one provided phone call!"

Ah, that. Sherlock bit back a smile. The vendor always gave him extra portions.

"You just killed a man, Sherlock. Have some respect." Mycroft was using his dangerous voice. When the brothers had been children, this calm and emotionless voice had usually come prior to blistering insults. Now that they were older, Sherlock heard it used when Mycroft was deadly serious, and would not be given to outbursts of sentiment for his younger brother's sake. But Sherlock was in no mood to tread carefully.

"Respect? For Magnussen?" he spat, lifting his head from its reclined position against the bars. "If I hadn't shot him, that parasitic man would still be sucking the life from all those people he's threatened. Mary would be dead. John too, probably. And so what if I ordered fish and chips? Was I supposed to sit down here for a few days until you forgot about me?"

Mycroft was silent for a few minutes, breathing slowly and peering down his long nose at Sherlock.

"Anyone attempting to sell state secrets sits here, without food, until they are properly dealt with. Even you. You should remember better than anyone my lack of sentiment," he said coldly. "Did you even think about those four kids when you killed the only person keeping them alive?"

"What about John and Mary? I made a vow to protect them," Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft lost his patience. "Sherlock, you have a responsibility to help anyone who comes into your life, not just the ones you love. Yes, I know you love them, Sherlock, don't lie," he shouted as his brother opened his white-lipped mouth to protest. "You have an obligation; you've made a vow to any client you've ever taken on to work for them to bring some good to the world. But what you did tonight saved one, maybe two lives, where four are now at even greater risk. And I can't let you out of prison now to go save them. I have promises to keep too."

He lowered his eyes as he finished shouting, and straightened his smooth black suit uncomfortably.

"Then keep them," said Sherlock, his green eyes widening as they often did when he had an idea. "You are aware of where the four students are being kept, I assume?"

Mycroft nodded. "Carson's kept me informed, but we can't infiltrate yet," he said. Sherlock rose from his repose and stood against the bars, their shadows dividing his face into boxes. "I want you to tell them I accept the position you offered me earlier today. In Eastern Europe. I can leave this holding cell and save the kids before I report for assignment."

The steely gaze Mycroft had held seemed to falter for a moment. "That…would be a tremendous sacrifice, Sherlock. Remember what I told you," he said.

_Fatal to you in about six months._

"I know," came the whispered response. "But it's the only way." Sherlock stuck his pale hand through the bars, and shook hands with his brother.

His total number of deals with the devil for the day was now two.

And counting.


End file.
